


Summer of '75

by lilyyyofthevalley



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s Era Queen (Band), A Night at the Opera Era, Album: A Night At The Opera (Queen), Band Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I'll add tags as I write, Light Angst, Lots of platonic fluff, M/M, Ridge Farm, Slow Burn, arguments in the studio, hence the name of the fic, i'm a sucker for emotional hurt/comfort so expect that in the future, my first ao3 fic, set during the summer of '75, slow burn but not painfully slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyyyofthevalley/pseuds/lilyyyofthevalley
Summary: While Queen stays at Ridge Farm to record their fourth album, A Night At The Opera, feelings emerge. Takes place during the summer of 1975, hence the title of the fic.
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury, John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	1. 1

It was a cold June morning in London. The streets were dark, empty; a lingering sense of calmness that exists only in the early hours of the morning. The calmness existed in the van as well, so that when the vehicle came to a stop, nobody made a move to get out.

In the passenger seat, the singer stirred from his half-asleep state, stifling a yawn and rubbed his eyes. Meeting the driver's gaze, he pleaded gently, “Be a dear and let him know we’ve arrived?”

“Sure thing, Freddie.”

The car door opened and closed, then the silence returned. Freddie Mercury - lead singer of Queen - stretched his arms above his head. The man was in his late 20’s; average height, slender body. His dark hair reached his shoulders, feathery bangs sweeping across his forehead. He had gorgeous brown eyes and high cheekbones. His front teeth poked out slightly between full lips, although he often hid them with his top lip or hand out of self-consciousness. His fashion taste was unique - glam, sometimes a bit over the top, but always tasteful - and mirrored his personality. Everything about him was so stunning, so one of a kind, so Freddie.

In the back seat sat the drummer, Roger Taylor, asleep with his head resting on the sleeping bassist’s shoulder. He was in his mid 20’s and had a similar height and build to Freddie, although maybe slightly more toned due to the nature of the instrument he played. His features were soft, almost feminine; shoulder-length shaggy blonde hair, big blue eyes framed by thick eyelashes, and a voice that was naturally higher than most mens. Like Freddie, he had a good taste in fashion - the two had even run a clothing stall at Kensington Market a few years prior.

The bassist - John Deacon or Deaky, as he was often called - was the youngest member of Queen. He was good-natured with a quick wit, and could be very shy in some situations. He had soft brown hair that fell past his shoulders, blue-green eyes, and an adorable gap-toothed smile. He was taller than both Freddie and Roger, although it wasn’t always noticeable, and like Freddie he spoke with an accent slightly different than Roger and Brian’s. While slightly more modest than the others, his talent would show through when given the chance. He was rightfully known as the band’s secret weapon.

A minute or two had passed before the door slid open, and a sleepy Brian May climbed inside. The guitarist sat beside Roger, giving the drummer a gentle nudge in a useless attempt to gain a little more breathing space. Brian was the second oldest member of the band; one year younger than Freddie, and two years older than Roger. He was noticeably taller than the rest of the band, lanky, with hazel eyes and curly dark brown hair that fell just past his shoulders. He was thoughtful, kind, and very smart - he had been working towards his PHD in astrophysics before abandoning it to focus on the band. He could be somewhat of a perfectionist at times, especially in regards to music.

“Morning, Bri,” Freddie whispered, shifting slightly to face the guitarist.

“Good morning Fred,” Brian managed a smile, although he wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep. He stifled a yawn, “It’s too early.”

Freddie chuckled softly, “You can say that again.”

The driver’s side door opened, and Paul Prenter returned. While John Reid was the band’s official manager, Paul was hired by him to look after the band on a more personal level, which is why he was accompanying the band to Ridge Farm, where they would be recording their fourth album. He wouldn’t be staying with them the entire time - just to get them settled and then would return to check up on them periodically.

The car started and pulled away from the curb. Brian fell asleep quickly, unconsciously leaning a bit into Roger’s side. Freddie faced the window, watching with sleepy eyes as the London skyline slowly began to light up as it faded from view. Eventually, he too closed his eyes and let the gentle rumble of the van lull him to sleep.

\---

“Roger,” Brian gently nudged the drummer, “Rog, wake up.”

The blond mumbled incoherently, “Hmm, fuck off.”

Standing outside the van, Freddie laughed at his bandmates. While they slept, Roger had shifted to lean onto Brian and rest his head on his shoulder, with John doing the same to Roger.

The guitarist looked to the singer with a pleading look in his eyes. Freddie sighed sympathetically, walking over to the open door. He reached across Brian to touch the drummer’s knee, speaking in a singsong voice, “Roger,” then did the same to the bassist, “Deaky, darling.”

The two younger members woke up, allowing Brian to get out before following suit. As the band gathered their belongings from the back of the van, they found themselves on a farm in the English countryside. It was still early summer; the grass was mostly green, puffy white clouds dotted the blue sky, the weather beginning to heat up but not unbearably. Paul helped them carry their suitcases and bags across a grassy lawn to a farmhouse, where Queen would be living for the next few months.

As Paul unlocked the door, Roger lit a cigarette, turning to the others, “Didn’t realize we’d be staying at an actual bloody farm.”

“It’s quite literally in the title, Rog,” Brian pointed out, “Ridge Farm.”

Roger shot him a look. Freddie defended him, “He’s got a point, dear.”

“It could be worse.” Deaky added, taking in his surroundings before they stepped inside.

The boys followed Paul inside. They walked past the kitchen and up the stairs, setting down their belongings on the landing at the top, where they delegated the rooms. Freddie would stay in the master bedroom with Brian and Roger’s respective rooms side by side across the hall, while John ended up with the tiny bedroom in the basement.

Freddie set down his suitcases at the end of his bed, walking over to open the faded lace curtains with a flourish. He admired the picturesque view of the farm for a moment, before turning to shrug off his jacket and lay it on the foot of the bed. He briefly got himself acquainted with the room before snapping open his first suitcase, retrieving his songwriting book and a pencil.

Across the hall Brian was making himself comfortable, closing the door and slipping off his shoes to lay on the bed, wincing at the way the springs squeaked as he sat down. He adjusted the pillows, leaning back with a contented sigh. Sure, he had napped in the van, but his sleep the previous night had been minimal. He turned onto his side and let his eyes close, before a sudden knock from the other side of the wall sounded sharply behind the headboard.

“Brian!” he heard Roger’s muffled voice shout. The walls must have been just as thin as they looked.

He groaned, turning onto his back and raised his voice, “What?”

“Come explore with me!”

A pause, then, “I will later, Rog.”

The drummer left the matter alone, but only a minute or so later a knock sounded at the door. Freddie’s voice called teasingly from the hallway, “Are you decent?”

“Come in.”

The door opened and Freddie stood in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame and the other on his hip, “Get your shoes on, we’re going exploring.”

“Roger sent you, didn’t he?”

“No,” Freddie ventured into the room, “he said you were in a mood but I insisted that we all go.”

Brian paused, examining Freddie’s expression, “You aren’t going to leave me alone until I come with you - am I right?”

“I’m afraid so,” Freddie smiled.

Downstairs, Roger reached the bottom of the stairs at the same time that Deaky reached the top of the stairs coming up from the basement. “How’s the room, Deaks?”

“Not much bigger than a broom closet,” Deaky complained with a laugh, “And yours?”

The two started down the hall, “It’s nice, maybe a bit rustic for my liking though, and the walls are bloody thin.” Roger giggled, “Could make things awkward if one of us brought a bird home, but my room’s next to Brian’s so I’m not too worried about hearing anything from his side.”

“Oh, piss off,” the guitarist’s voice sounded from the staircase, and the two younger members shared a quiet laugh before turning to wait for him and Freddie to catch up. 

The four boys left the farmhouse, wandering leisurely and chatting amongst themselves as they got their bearings of the farm. It was a beautiful day; there was a light breeze, but it was still warm enough to be comfortable without a jacket. Eventually, the boys stumbled upon the tennis court.

They all shared a look, wordlessly agreeing to play a round or two. Freddie grabbed John’s arm, “I’m with Deaky!”

Brian shared a look with Roger, “I won’t let you down, Rog.”

“You better not,” Roger grinned, giving his shoulder a playful swat. He picked up the rackets on his side of the court and handed one to his teammate, calling over across the net, “The losers owe the winners a beer!”

“Deal!” Freddie agreed.

Deaky asked, “How many rounds?”

“Best of three?” Brian offered. The others agreed, and the guitarist bounced the tennis ball to the drummer, “Your serve.”


	2. 2

“Can you do one more take?”

Freddie was growing impatient, “I nailed the last one.”

They were a week into their stay at Ridge Farm when nerves began to fray. The stress of recording an album coupled with spending nearly every moment together caused tensions to run high. This time, Brian had let his perfectionism get the better of him while they were recording a retake of Keep Yourself Alive.

Brian was insistent, “One more take, this time-” Freddie ripped off the headphones before he could finish, glaring at him through the glass of the mixing booth. The guitarist rose to his feet and opened the door, taking a step out of the booth, “What the fuck’s your problem?”

“This is a fucking waste of time!” Freddie raised his voice, stepping towards him, “The song’s already on the first album, we’re not putting an identical copy on this one!”

In the mixing booth Roger and John shared a look, both mentally picking sides yet saying nothing. Deaky knew it was better not to get involved, and Roger simply didn’t care enough about the argument to join in. The bassist watched the drummer flick some ashes off the end of his cigarette, tuning out the shouts of his bandmates.

“If you’re going to be so damn picky about the vocals, sing it yourself!”

And with that final declaration, Freddie stormed off. Brian stood there, taking a moment to collect himself. Then, he poked his head back into the booth to mutter an apology to the producer before setting off in the direction the singer had left.

“Tell them to find us when they’re done,” Roger stood as he spoke to the producer. He locked eyes with the bassist, and Deaky nodded as he rose and followed him from the booth.

Roger and Deaky set off towards the farmhouse. The sky was clear blue, and wind blew their hair into their faces as they walked. Inside, they went to the pool table, hoping to squeeze in a quick game or two before the other half of the band resolved their dispute.

“Ten quid we won’t get anything else done today,” Roger bet, picking up a cue from its hanging place on the wall.

Deaky followed suit, smiling at the drummer, “Would be a shock if we did.”

They both gathered the balls in the center of the table, getting them into position. They had entered a comfortable silence, save for the faint sound of raised voices from somewhere outside. Roger took the first shot, grinning as he sank one. 

“I was worried this would happen,” Deaky spoke suddenly. Roger looked up, puzzled.

“What?”

“The arguments and bickering,” the bassist explained, setting up to take his shot, “We’ve only been here a week and we’re already getting on each other's nerves.”

Roger sensed the anxiety in the other’s tone and set out to reassure him, “Ah, that’s just how Freddie and Brian are - too perfectionist for their own good.” John took his shot, and Roger set up to take his, “It would be more concerning if they weren’t at each other’s throats.”

John didn’t miss a beat, “Says you.”

The drummer raised his middle finger at the bassist, although his eventual smile showed that the gesture was no act of aggression. They each took a few more shots in silence before Roger spoke again, “Have you written anything for the album?”

“Nothing yet - nice shot - have you?”

“Thanks - me neither. I have a few beginnings of ideas but nothing solid.”

“Well, if inspiration doesn’t come, we can always count on Freddie and Brian to write an album and a half’s worth of songs each,” the bassist joked, although his words weren’t far from the truth.

“Yeah,” Roger laughed, “That’s if they don’t kill each other first.”

Deaky laughed. Then, as if on cue, Freddie poked his head into the room, “We’ve settled our dispute, darlings - back to the studio.”

The two boys groaned as they abandoned their game. As they stepped outside, Deaky noted, “They settled that in record time.”

Roger agreed, and Freddie raised an eyebrow, “What was that?”

“Nothing,” they said in unison.

\---

“Is that even a word, dear?”

“Yes, bioluminescence is a word,” Brian defended himself, “Rog, you studied biology. Is bioluminescence a word?”

The blond looked pensively at the scrabble board, taking a long sip of his beer. “Dunno, maybe. Sounds sort of familiar.”

The singer sighed dramatically, “Fine, you win. Again.”

Brian smiled teasingly at Freddie, and the bassist leaned back into the couch, “Another game?”

Roger hummed inconclusively, and Brian replied, “I’m a bit tired, Deaky.” 

Freddie got up from his spot on the ground and made himself comfortable in an armchair. He took a sip of his drink, clumsily attempting to flatten his bangs. With the rhythm section lounging in their spots on the couch, the guitarist slowly started putting away the scrabble board and setting aside the empty bottles on the coffee table.

“I’ve got it,” Freddie said, looking up from inspecting his dark nail polish, “We could play truth or dare - doesn’t require much coherence.”

“What are we, schoolgirls?” Roger asked.

Freddie grinned, “You look like one, with that hair.”

“Piss off!”

They all laughed, and Freddie reached over and patted Roger’s knee to show he was kidding. Brian spoke up from his armchair opposite the singer’s, “No dares, though. I don’t wanna get up.”

Freddie agreed, “That’s fair.”

“And everyone should answer each question - it’s more fun that way,” Deaky proposed.

“I like your way of thinking, Deaks,” Freddie clapped his hands together, “Alright then, I’ll go first.” He paused for a moment, considering possible questions. Then, “What’s the weirdest place you’ve had a shag?”

Roger sat up, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he suddenly found interest in the game. He watched as Brian went wide eyed, blushing as he replied, “In a car.”

“Boring,” Roger teased, then announced proudly “Back in university I once shagged a girl on top of a pool table.”

Brian narrowed his eyebrows at the blond while John simply laughed. Freddie found this all incredibly amusing, “And you, Deaks?”

“In a girl’s kitchen,” the bassist chuckled, blushing as he looked down at his hands for a moment, then back up at the singer, “And you, Freddie?”

“I asked the question, dear,” Freddie grinned playfully, “Who’s turn is it next?”

It was around midnight when the boys decided to call it a night and head to their respective rooms. John bid the others goodnight and watched for a moment as they struggled to climb the stairs, uneasily due to the booze in their systems, before retiring to his tiny basement room. He did feel sort of left out sleeping in a room so separated from the others, but he was too tired to care about it now as he slipped off his shoes and pants and climbed into bed.

The rest of the boys bid each other goodnight at the top of the stairs. “G’night, mates,” Roger slurred, offering his bandmates a clumsy wave before stumbling into his room.

“Night, Rog.”

“Sweet dreams,” Freddie called. Beside him, Brian tripped on the top step and he reached out to steady the guitarist with a laugh, “Careful, Bri.”

“Ah, thanks,” Brian laughed, clinging onto Freddie for support as he conquered the last step, “Dunno what I’d do without you.”

Freddie blushed at the compliment as the two disentangled themselves at the top of the stairs, remaining close together. He smiled fondly at the taller man as he briefly let his hand caress the side of his face, “Goodnight, Brimi dearest.”

Brian smiled back at the singer, “Goodnight, Fred.” With a yawn, Brian went to his room. Freddie watched until the door closed after the guitarist, then went to his own room for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's been a hot minute since I posted the first chapter... I don't really have an excuse for the delay with this one but I hope you all will enjoy anyways. I've come up with a vague outline for the next few chapters so it should be much easier for me to write and publish in the future. I hope you're all doing well <3


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: panic attack, mentioned drug use
> 
> this chapter includes a description of a substance induced panic attack, so please read with caution if this may be triggering.

The following morning, the boys were in no rush to get ready. They had nothing planned until their meeting with Prenter, which gave them some leeway to start their day as they pleased. Chatter floated softly through the kitchen as they slowly woke up, snacking and sipping drinks. It wasn’t until just after eleven that Brian joined them.

“Morning,” he sighed, voice still groggy from sleep. His messy hair and light stubble would have been signs that he had just rolled out of bed had his pajamas not been a dead giveaway. 

“Morning,” Deaky replied, raising his coffee cup to his lips.

Roger looked up from the newspaper he’d been skimming, “Sleeping beauty decided to join us.”

“Sleep well, darling?” Freddie asked. Brian hummed. “Hungover?”

“A bit,” he winced, taking the empty seat at the counter beside Roger.

Freddie’s tone walked a fine line between genuine and sarcastic. “You poor thing,” he cooed. He finished pouring himself a cup of tea before filling a glass with water and placing it in front of Brian.

“Thanks, Fred,” Brian spoke, watching as Freddie passed him the bottle of pain reliever. He shook out a pill onto his hand, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Freddie tutted, “Nonsense. Drink up, dear.” He walked around the counter to give Brian a chaste kiss on the cheek, ruffling his hair.

Brian smiled, giggling a bit at the singer’s display of affection, and did as he was told. Freddie went back to making himself tea, while John and Roger finished their toast. Eventually Deaky stood up, taking his and Roger’s empty plates to set in the sink, “What time are we meeting with Prenter?”

“Oh, shit,” Brian looked up at the clock, then down at his pajamas, “I need to get ready.”

“Forgot?” Roger laughed, and was promptly ignored by the guitarist as he left the room.

Freddie set down his tea and addressed Deaky’s unanswered question, “We’re meeting him at one o’clock, darling.”

The bassist hummed, “Okay. Well, in that case, I’m gonna go for a quick walk - looks rather nice outside.”

“Alright.”

“See ya, Deacon,” Roger waved. John grabbed his lightweight jacket from the coat rack by the door and slipped outside. The room was quiet now, save for the sound of Roger tapping out a rhythm on the countertop as he read. They heard the shower turn on upstairs. Roger spoke quietly, more to himself than to Freddie although the comment pertained to the singer, “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

Freddie looked up from his tea, “What’s that, dear?”

Roger hadn’t planned on saying anything, but it was too late, “You know that Brian - he’s not…”

Roger trailed off, but Freddie knew exactly what he wanted to say - 'He’s not like you, Freddie. He’s not gay.' Freddie felt the color drain from his face, forcing himself not to freeze up as he deflected, “What are you going on about?”

“I see the way you look at him.”

Freddie’s tone quickly went cold; defensive, “You don’t need to protect him. You know that I would never-”

“I’m not protecting him, you git” Roger interrupted, looking up at the singer, “I’m trying to protect you from hurting your own feelings.”

There was a pause. Roger hadn’t intended to rub him the wrong way, but he had done just that. Freddie avoided eye contact, turning to empty the remainder of his tea into the sink before grabbing his cigarettes and matchbox off the counter. “I’m going for a smoke.”

Freddie settled into a lawn chair outside, lit up a match and held it up to the end of a cigarette between his lips. He inhaled a small puff of smoke, put out the match and ground it into the dirt with his shoe. Then he exhaled, holding the cigarette elegantly between two fingers and leaned back.

Of course Roger fucking knew. And he was right; he had to nip his feelings before they could hurt him.

\---

“We’re fucked!”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic darling.”

“Dramatic? We’ve been fucked sideways!”

The boys had been discussing their earlier meeting with Prenter, and Roger was not pleased. Not only had the manager explained to the group just how evil their previous contract with Sheffield was - he’d explained that the record label was supplying a large amount of funding for the album, which could mean one of two things: the album sells and the band profits from it, or the album flops and the band goes into debt. In other words, this album would be make or break.

Brian tried to calm the blond, “Rog, we’re in a much better position now than we were with Sheffield.”

“Fuck off, Brian.” Roger spat, and left the room. They could hear him march upstairs and slam the door to his room. Then, they heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking. The three boys exchanged a look. 

Freddie sighed, “I’ll go,” and went after Roger upstairs.

Deaky finally spoke, “Now what?”

Brian shrugged.

When Freddie reappeared downstairs, he threw the remnants of a broken beer bottle into the trash before joining Deaky and Brian in the living room. “Problem solved, darlings.”

“How’d you do that?” Brian asked, “I’ve never been able to calm him with so little fuss.”

Freddie grinned, “I have my tricks.” He pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket, just long enough for the others to see, then hid it again.

“You got him high,” Brian sighed, “Seriously, Fred?”

Deaky hummed, “That’s one way to do it.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, dears, I’m headed to the studio,” Freddie excused himself, grabbing his jacket as he slipped out into the night.

After the door closed, Brian muttered in disappointment, “Unbelievable.”

“Think I should check on him?” Deaky offered.

“Would you do that?”

“‘Course,” Deaky replied, rising to his feet. Roger had had some less than pleasant experiences with weed in the past, and both guitarists wanted to make sure the drummer was okay. 

When Deaky reached Roger’s room, he knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. “Roger, can I come in?” Still no answer. As much as the bassist wanted to give the drummer privacy, he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that overrode his manners and made him open the door.

He found Roger sitting on the edge of his bed, knees pulled into his chest and head in his hands. “Go away,” Roger demanded, voice shaking. Deaky’s anxiety spiked. Closing the door behind him, he slowly approached the blond. He sat beside him on the bed, giving him space and waiting for him to talk first. “I’m okay, Deaks. Just a bit high.”

“I know,” Deaky stated, “Freddie told us.” He paused. “Need anything?”

He shook his head, which was a bad idea, as it made the room spin faster. “Fuck,” Roger whispered, voice breaking. 

“Here, lay down,” Deaky suggested, reaching over to adjust the pillows.

Roger refused, “I’m fine.”

“Rog...” Deaky spoke softly, running a hand up and down his friend's back with caution, “You’re trembling, mate.”

If Roger hadn’t been crying before, he certainly was now. He sobbed, “M’not.”

“It’s okay,” Deaky comforted, scooting closer. As Roger broke into sobs, Deaky pulled him into his side and wrapped him in a gentle hug, resting his head against his.

When the drummer had exhausted himself, he reached up to dry his eyes, “Sorry.”

“Happens to the best of us.”

Roger pulled away and lay down, his breathing erratic and hands covering his face as he willed himself to stop crying. Deaky shifted his weight and was grabbed by the wrist, “Don’t go.”

He looked back at Roger, finally meeting his eyes for the first time since coming into his room. The anxiety in his voice and the expression on his face broke Deaky's heart. “Okay.”

Roger slipped under the covers, moving aside to make room for his bandmate. Not wanting to overstep his boundaries, John lay beside him atop the covers. The blond scooted closer, drying his eyes. He spoke softly, nearly a whisper, “Thanks, Deaks,” and wrapped his arms around him.

As Roger nuzzled into his chest, he wrapped his arms around him, “Of course.” The bassist had to admit; he felt a bit awkward sharing this level of intimacy with his mate, but it was not unpleasant. As they lay like this, he could feel the tension beginning to leave Roger’s body as his breathing gradually slowed to a normal rate. He reached up to brush aside a lock of blond hair that was tickling his neck, then ran his fingers through the drummer’s hair before stopping himself.

What was he doing?

He was here for comfort, not a bloody cuddle. But as he looked down at the blond, his breaths evening out as he fell asleep on his chest, he realized he was in too deep. Sleepiness tugged on his eyelids, and he wasn’t about to leave now. Slowly, he reached over to turn off the lamp, enveloping the room in darkness as his hand found its way back to Roger’s shoulder and he waited for sleep to come.


End file.
